


50 Shades of Denim

by big_zs_d_stan



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Crack, M/M, Magical joots, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 00:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17335529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/big_zs_d_stan/pseuds/big_zs_d_stan
Summary: The story of how Tom Brady saved the Bruins through the magic of denim (based on true events).





	50 Shades of Denim

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I want you to know I hate everything about this, and that I am ashamed I wrote this, which is a lot coming from me  
> 2\. it is also imperative to know that this is set in the long hair brady era (look it up, prepz)

It was late o’clock on a sunday evening at the TD Garden. The Disappointment Bears had just finished being shutout by Roberto Luongo, which was one of their favorite pastimes. A horrible fourteen to zero loss, in which Aleksander Barkov was able to get a triple hat trick, reminiscent of a certain world juniors team Canada win.

All was fine that night, the Bruins were used to losing up to four games in a row. Dejectedly they packed up their bags, walking past any reporter that wanted to ask about how they should get more pucks to the net. It was futile, they were has-beens in a league where the Maple Leafs placed second; a world truly turned upside down, a Steve Dangle-esque scream into the black and gold void.

Sat on the toilet of the TD Garden restroom was Chara, scrolling through his phone during his post-game loss dump. He sighed longingly looking at the twitter commotion, scanning his eyes over a Haggerty headline reading “Why hasn’t Tuukka Rask been publicly executed yet?” Every other response were the fans’ trade ideas and fantasy lineups, all unrealistic in their own way. It was all too much for him, as he closed his eyes, giving one final mighty squeeze before flushing.

The cool water of the sink hit his giant yaoi hands, which caused him to let out a sigh. A reminder that there were still vegan friendly beverages left in the world, he smiled, scooping some of the H2O into his mouth for a nice drink. It was what he deserved after the valiant effort he and his team brought tonight.

As he was chugging half of the Garden’s water supply, a loud crack rang out from the corner of the bathroom. This was not out of the ordinary, as sounds like these could be the building settling, but he knew this was no ordinary event when he saw a figure out of the corner of his eye. It was a man, dressed in all denim (including his boots), his hair perfectly combed and his chin cutely dimpled.

Could it be? No, it couldn’t have been. Oh, but it was.

This man was none other than Patriots superstar and New England sports icon Tom Brady, who stood solemnly in the middle of the TD Garden restroom. How he had gotten there was a mystery, and probably due to Belichick's dark magic, but he was there, in the flesh.

“Hello Zdeno.” He said in his lightly midwestern accent. “Do you like my joots?”

Chara, who stood paralyzed at the sink, turned around slowly, as if he was about to be arrested (Though with the NHL’s cocaine problem, who knows who’s next?). He could not believe that his organically-sustained plant-based diet icon was standing right behind him. Before he knew it, his eyes were locked with Tom’s own sparkling sapphire orbs, and his knees were wobbling like crazy.

He gulped softly, feeling the butterflies rise in his stomach like a deflected puck. “Your joots are the most beautiful I have ever seen.”

This made Tom’s eyes light up, a grin spreading across his perfectly sculpted face.

“I know they are,” He replied, reaching down and unzipping the joots (jean boots). His exposed legs were sleek and shiny as he pulled the joots off, taking them into his arms. He cradled the denim shoes in his arms like a jaby (jean baby). “Would you like to try them on?”

It was one thing to meet Brady, but it was another thing to be asked to try on his magical joots. A cold sweat broke out on Chara’s face, juicy beads of vegan sweat dripping down his giraffe neck. He could only imagine what would happen if he slipped the sensual fabric over his legs, letting it drape over his smooth slovakian skin. But he knew deep down inside that he was not worthy enough to wear the joots; his team was barely hanging on, and he as a captain had done nothing to change it.

“I cannot try on your joots.” Chara said quiet, a hint of shame and sadness in his voice. He looked away from Tom, his eyes boring holes into the tile floor. The fluorescent lights above flickered.

“Why do you not want to wear my joots?” Tom questioned, reaching out to place a hand on his face. 

A singular teardrop fell from the taller man’s eye, falling faster than the Bruins’ ranking in the Atlantic division. Tom wiped it away, the salty liquid absorbing into his jloves (jean gloves). They stood like that for a moment, Chara barely able to collect himself. His mind was clouded with negative thoughts, unusual for the often inspirational and uplifting man.

Turning away from Tom, he looked at himself in the mirror. He couldn’t help but notice that the mirror was cracked, broken just like he was. “Your joots aren’t to be worn by losers. I-” He faltered, sighing heavily before looking up at the ceiling. “I am a loser.”

There was a loud snapping sound, a bright flash of white light that made him wince. When Chara turned around again, Tom was nowhere to be seen. It was if as soon as he had appeared, he was gone. The only thing that remained were the joots themselves, left in the place where Tom was standing, folded into a neat pile. 

Atop the joot pile, a note that read: “Wear the joots.”

-

Things hadn’t gotten any better since Chara’s mysterious run-in with Tom in the Garden bathroom. Some would say things had even gotten worse for the captain and his team. It was at the point where the Bruins couldn’t even beat the Devils, suffering a seventy-three to zero loss against the New Jersey team. 

The game was an outrage, a record breaking defeat never seen before in the league. Articles were flying out from journalists of all sports, one piece even being named “10 Reasons Why The Bruins Should Be Relocated To Quebec.” The headlines were becoming as offensive as the Bruins’ play, and announcers Jack and Brick were no less unforgiving, with nightly rants becoming a staple of the NESN broadcasts they once enjoyed.

Most agitated of all was general manager Don Sweeney, who's usually expressionless face and apathetic attitude morphed into something far more sinister. He had no problem letting everyone know they were on thin ice, and the man was not afraid to cut anyone from the team. Only a week ago he had David Backes arrested in his own home, citing the cause as “crimes against Bjork.”

Chatter in the locker room was kept at a dull murmur, for the players were far too busy considering the stakes. All were aware that the night’s game against the Sabres would be pivotal, a make or break moment for the future. Chara sat on the bench alone, admiring the one thing that he had left in life: his bright yellow crocs. He had not forgotten about the joots of course, which were stowed away most secretly in his locker; however, he would not allow himself the pleasure of wearing them until he could prove to himself he was truly a winner, forgoing what the note had said completely.

It was at this time coach Cassidy entered the locker room, looking more frazzled than usual. His patchy hair stuck up in random tufts, his eyes bloodshot from a lack of sleep. The smile that was often on his face had disappeared, replaced with a scowl as he gathered everyone around to speak. 

“As you all know, we haven’t been able to win a game in…” Bruce started, whipping his phone out to go through his calendar. After minutes of scrolling, he spoke up again. “About five weeks. Which, frankly, is a record setting achievement. Not saying it’s a good thing, but at least we have set one record this season.”

The room bursted out into cheer, always glad to have an accomplishment under their belts. DeBrusk stood up, materializing a whipped cream can from out of nowhere. “This calls for some cream, eh boys?” He yelled out, and the crowd yelled back in agreement.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Bruce spoke up, hand gripping his temples. No one listened as Jake continued to cream all over the boys. “I SAID THAT’S ENOUGH. LISTEN TO YOUR MASTER WHEN HE SPEAKS TO YOU.” 

This caused the lot to freeze in their tracks, and before long the whipped cream can was gone.

“Anywho, I just wanted to mention that our very own Big Zee has had a very special letter mailed to him. Apparently, it’s from the Patriots Organization.” The room turned to look at Chara, who was still sat looking at his crocs, as sounds of shock echoed. He could feel an organic avocado sized pit grow in his stomach. Maybe if he ignored it, it would all go away.

This was not the case however, as Bruce made his way through the crowd to place the letter in his hands. The envelope was smooth, navy blue with little specks of silver glitter. He hoped that it was made out of all recycled materials, or he was going to have a serious problem.

“So, you gonna open it big man?” Brad spoke up as loud as possible. The left-winger flashed his classic rat smile at him, complete with finger-guns and everything.

Patrice, who was sat next to his liney as usual, shook his head. “Brad, what did I say about rushing people? He can open the letter on his own time.”

Chara looked up from the envelope and at his teammates before him. All looked on in anticipation, excitement even. The lights above flickered once more, like the night he met Tom in the restroom. He looked down at the letter and back up, only to find that everyone in the room was gone.

Ripping the dark blue paper of the envelope as carefully as he could, he removed what seemed to be a piece of thin, folded denim. It was light blue, giving him flashbacks of Tom’s outfit from weeks before. Opening the denim up, he found words carefully embroidered into it, forming a single phrase: “Wear the fucking joots.” He shuddered at the sight, seanbumps rising on his skin. He couldn’t wear the joots, he just couldn’t. 

Tossing the letter in the trash, he ran to the bathroom stall, slamming the door behind him. His head was pounding, as tears began to pour out of his face like buckets. For he was not worthy of any joots, especially not Tom Brady’s. It took a few moments, but he gradually regained his composure.

Outside he could hear his teammates carry on with their usual conversation, gearing up for the game like nothing had happened. It was time to go out and get that bread.

-

If things were not bad before, they had certainly gotten worse during the Sabres game. What some would call a complete catastrophe, the final score was ran up so high by Buffalo that it had stopped being counted after a while. Jeff Skinner had felt so bad he tried taking a few shots on his own goalie.

The atmosphere in the locker room was uncomfortable, to say the least. Coach Cassidy, who usually gave speeches after every loss, spoke to no one. He entered his office, slamming the door behind him, blasting My Chemical Romance to numb the pain. Even the players didn’t know what to make of the situation; it was so bad that even Pasta was close to tears.

As he was packing his equipment away, the pair of joots fell out of Chara’s locker and on to the floor. He was so sick of being around them, being tempted by them constantly, despite the fact he felt he could not wear them. Picking them up in one fell swoop, he threw the joots into the garbage. To make sure no one would try to take them, he grabbed what was left of his plant-based protein shake, dousing the joots generously with the drink. Doing this only made him feel worse, as he had wasted precious nutrients that someone else could have used.

Later that night at home, he was tossing and turning in his bed. Though it was a team effort, he couldn’t help but feel like the loss was his fault. Nothing added up; they were doing everything coach had said, making sure to get plenty of pucks to the net and bodies to the boards. The problem was unsolvable, yet the solution seemed to be brimming right at the surface. 

Turning once more, he looked over at his alarm clock, which was sitting atop his bedside table. The time read 3:28 am, which was far later than he was expecting. Soon he would have to wake up and cook his family their vegan breakfast, then bike over to the Garden for morning skate. Reaching over with his freakishly long arms, he turned the clock away from him, only to jump as a loud popping sound occured behind him. At this point, he knew it could only mean one thing.

Rolling back over, he was met face to face with Tom yet again, who had a denim sleep mask over his eyes.

“So,” Tom started, sounding clearly unimpressed, “I’m sensing you haven’t worn the joots yet. Is there a reason why? I sent you a letter, you know.” He pulled the mask up, letting it rest on his forehead. His long brown hair fell down in front of his face, but Chara could still sense he had a look of disappointment. 

“I got your letter, and I already told you, I can’t wear them.” He felt bad saying it, but it was how he truly felt. There was something about the joots that were too powerful, too strong an energy. Whenever he was near them, he felt weird inside. “Besides, I don’t look good in acid wash.”

“I don’t believe you. You looked great in that speedo when you were doing pull ups at training camp. If a man can rock a banana hammock, he can wear anything. But if that’s the case, then take these.” Tom replied, pulling a pair of dark wash joots from under the covers. They looked absolutely breathtaking, yet they still emanated the nauseating energy that the first pair did. He could barely stand to look at them, opting to put his pillow over his face instead. “You will put these on right now, or else.” 

There was no way he was going to let a 5-time Super Bowl champion put shoes on him like he was a child. And there was absolutely no way he was going to wear the damn joots.

“Or else what?” he retorted, and as soon as he did, the world instantly went black.

Everything was spinning, a senseless feeling of vertigo; it was as if he had taken a Charlie Mac check to the head. As soon as it subsided, the coldness set in. Was he dead? Reaching up to touch his cheek, there was a wetness to his skin. Was heaven really a water park?

But he wasn’t dead. Getting up, his joints popping and cracking alongside him, he discovered that he was on the ice in the Garden, Tom standing beside him. The quarterback was dressed in his usual all denim, and so was Chara, as he looked down to find he was wearing the joots. They fit so perfectly around his calves, like shrinkwrap on a chicken drum. If he wasn’t careful, he was sure a wild Canuck would come out of nowhere to take a bite of him.

It took a moment for him to absorb his surroundings. The stands were empty, the usually bright lights were dim. The banners were hanging from the rafters as usual: there were rows of them, and only two were unrecognizable. The unusual bright yellow fabric swayed above, sewn with the words “Stanley Cup Champions 2018-19.” Next to it, a jersey retirement banner, containing the number 34.

“What does this all mean?” he asked askionably, but with no response. He felt a pair of hands on his shoulders, turning him around, skating him toward a small display. Five Lombardi trophies sat before him, pristine and glimmering. Below each trophy, a photograph of Tom, presumably from each Super Bowl they were won. Though each photo differed in his age and stance, quality even, one thing remained the same: he was wearing joots in each one. 

Spinning Chara back to face him, Tom looked up with determination. “Without those joots, I would have never won the Super Bowl five times. I’ve been trying to tell you this, that the power is in the denim.” He smiled softly, bringing his face closer. Even his breath smelt of jeans. “I need you to know that-” He paused, his cheeks reddening. “What will it take to convince you to wear them?”

Of all the things he could have been thinking of, wearing the joots was not one of them. Chara was so close to him he could barely breathe, taking in his charming scent of musk and denim. His eyes flickered down to Tom’s mouth, and before he knew it his hands were on his waist and-

He sat up in his bed. The room was shrouded in darkness, and the alarm clock read around 6 am. It really was a dream after all; a disappointing feeling settling in his stomach quicker than two goals in seventeen seconds. 

Getting up out of bed, he pulled the sheets off, only to make the discovery of a lifetime. His legs were cloaked in that dark wash denim, and he was wearing the joots.

-  
“No, no, this can’t be,” He murmured to himself in a low voice, completely unsure of what to do. The joots were soft and supple under his touch, yet released a light feeling of static electricity. As much as he tugged on them, they refused to come off, like Jim Carrey’s mask in the blockbuster hit The Mask.

The slow rising sun began to shine through the window now, its rays seeping through the dark wash denim of the joots. He knew he had to get the joots off before his family woke up, or they too would be dangerously exposed to the mysterious power that they contained. Yet, when he searched the house for them all, they seemed to had disappeared without a trace. 

Grabbing his trusty bike, he hopped on, pedaling faster than Connor McDavid to the Garden. It was the only place he could think of going, at least to get some help prying the joots off. Maybe someone there would have some answers, though he doubted it.

As the bike trekked along the cracked sidewalks, lights from inside each passing home were switching on. Before he knew it, it seemed like everyone was coming out of their house to cheer him on, a more than confusing spectacle considering the Bruins’ poor performance. They yelled something about the Stanley Cup and he even thought he heard “Auston to Boston,” though he simply shook it off and pedalled harder. The people of the city must have been drinking too much of that dirty water.

He pulled up to the TD Garden parking lot with a screeching halt, and couldn’t help but notice there was confetti sprinkled everywhere. Strands of the black and gold plastic hanged from every structure, reminiscent of a toilet-papered house. The absolute environmental ignorance of it all made him boil with rage, which slowly dissipated when he remembered why he was at the Garden in the first place.

Emerging through the locker room doors, he was surprised to see his teammates all there. Their beards were full and luscious, and they were all soaking wet, though that seemed to be explained by the empty champagne bottles scattered about the floor. He could catch glimpses of something large and shiny at the center of the room, but what it could be he was not sure. He was no longer pressed with trying to remove the joots, more on trying to figure out what was all happening.

It was hard to understand the situation, barely being able to hear himself think over Jake’s whipped cream spraying screams. 

“Hey, what’s going on?!” He yelled, yet his voice was muffled by the loud rap music playing in the background. “Morning skate doesn’t start until 8, you guys don’t have to be here.”

Luckily he managed to capture the attention of a very tipsy Carlo, who stumbled toward him with the grace of an injured deer. It wasn’t hard to notice that the kid smelled lightly of vomit, but thankfully not the bad kind. “Morning skate? What are you talking about, duuude? The season’s over.”

“Over? But it’s only halfway-” And that was when everything had struck him. The banner, the people cheering him during his bike ride, the team’s full beards, the champagne and celebrating; The Bruins had become Stanley Cup champions again, all thanks to Tom and the power of his joots.

As soon as he had come to the realization, a crack of loud thunder boomed above, paired with that bright flash of light. Though this time, it was coming from Bruce’s seemingly empty office. He knew there could be only one person waiting for him, though there was always a slim chance that person could be Gritty.

“Excuse me.” Chara said, pushing past his linemate. There was an unfortunate thud behind him, which could only have been Brandon falling on his face. 

Inside the office was none other than than the denim adorned man himself, seated in Bruce’s large leather chair. How happy he was to see him couldn’t be explained with words, though the feeling was much like how he felt when he received fan art of his ESPN body issue pictures, or a good bowl of sustainably farmed banana ice cream. Tom seemed to be just as visibly pleased, standing up to wrap his arms around the taller man.

For a good while they stood like that, and time seemed to stop alongside it. It was nothing but peaceful; yet one thing remained on Chara’s mind, something that he needed an answer to.

Pulling away from the embrace, he stopped to glance over Tom’s face. His eyes, those familiar sparkling sapphire orbs, were even more powerful than the language of Dallas Stars’ owner Jim Lites. “What were you going to say to me, that night we were on the ice?”

“Oh, nothing,” Tom grinned back. Upon closer inspection, even his teeth were shaded a light denim color. “Only that I’m in love with joot.”

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think, but you don't have to. I don't want to pressure you like that.


End file.
